


The Historia of the Arcana

by Ink Raven (SavageOmens), Ink-Raven (k505)



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Criminal Minds: Suspect Behavior, Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternative Universe - Supernatural are Known, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Will Graham, Breeding, Breeding Kink, Dhampir, Double Penetration, F/F, F/M, FBI, Female Masturbation, Graphic Mpreg, Graphic Sexual Content, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter in Love, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Interspecies Sex, Kitsune, Knotting, Lycans, M/M, Magic, Male Masturbation, Mpreg, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Omega Will Graham, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Bedelia/Hannibal, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Other, Out of Character, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Pregnant Will Graham, Protective Will Graham, Protectiveness, Reincarnation, Rimming, Slow Romance, Stuffing, Top Hannibal Lecter, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vampires, Wendigo, Will Graham is Abe no Seimei, Witchcraft, Yurei, Yôkai, a/b/o dynamics, hybrid species, onmyōji
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-06 10:57:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20290327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavageOmens/pseuds/Ink%20Raven, https://archiveofourown.org/users/k505/pseuds/Ink-Raven
Summary: I’ve been in hiding, playing the part of a human, for over a thousand years. I had been born as Abe-no-Seimei and I became  legendary as a Japanese mystic. I had died from old age, but death is a peculiar thing. Death enhances the characteristics, values, and principles of the dead, and somehow, my soul had grown far toopowerfulto remain in the hereafter. And only two years after I had died, I had forcefully reconstructed a new form for myself. I have gone by many names over the years since then, but my most recent wasWilliam Graham.Now, however, humans were in the know about the supernatural and I may be forced to reveal myself as an immortal other, working and living alongside humans, for their protection. Since humanity has become aware of the supernatural, my age-old enemy has resurfaced creating chaos and spreading darkness. I will need allies, an army, and to remake myself into a weapon, to fight this oncoming horror.Diverges during Season One, Episode One. Definitions and More Information Inside.Haitus





	1. Prologue - Of Darkness and of Onmyouji

**Author's Note:**

> An **Onmyoji** is a Japanese mystic who, historically speaking, mainly focuses on exorcism of malevolent spirits, healing, and in divination. I have altered the abilities of our protagonist to feature skills and talents from my imagination and from other mythologies and foklores. **Abe-no-Seimei** can be considered the Japanese Merlin.  
  
**_For information on Yokai see_** www.yokai.com  
There are two types of **Shikigami** in my story. Traditionally Shikigami, are familiar spirits contracted to fight on the behalf of the Onmyoji. In my Story, the first type of Shikigami is the battle spirit familiar, who are more substantial in physical features and more diverse in abilities. The second are made of lesser spirits who look as if they have made of paper. They mostly act as servants in my story. Furthermore, Seimei gets creative with his Shikigami, even summoning the lesser spirits of dogs. 
> 
> **Architecture and Furniture:**  
**Engawa:** a hallway which separates the storm shutters and the delicate shoji  
**Amado:** retracting storm shutters, which can surround the Engawa or the interior wall, and protect the house  
**Shoji:** Sliding panels made of delicate paper in a wood frame  
**Fusuma:** Sliding panels which act as versatile walls and doorways inside the home  
**Tatami:** A mat-floors which were traditionally made of rice straw, they are soft and smell good  
**Irori:** a traditional Japanese sunken hearth used to both and cook and heat a room  
**Genkan:** an entrance way used to remove shoes, think of this as a tiny foyer or tiny entrance hall  
**Zabuton:** a thin pillow which individuals sit on atop of tatami  
**Chabudai:** Short rectangular tables used when sitting on the floor on either thin pillows or tatami  
**Futon** A bed which has no frame or base and is on the floor (usually atop a tatami)  
** Tōrō:** Shrine lamps made of stone, metal or wood

#  **The Historia of the Arcana**

**Extremely Explicit Adult Content – _Read at your Own discretion_**

(Recommended for Readers 18 years or older - NSFW)

Written, Edited and Illustrated by Ink-Raven

**Fully illustrated copies can be requested in the future**

** _In E-Book and PDF formats_ **

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Hannibal (Television/Book/Film) series or the Criminal Minds/Criminal Minds: Suspect Behavior (Television) Series. They belong to their respective creator and various publishers. No money is being made by the production of this fan fiction and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Please note, this is a work of fiction and depicts the characters and not the actors in anyway.

**Summary: **I’ve been in hiding, playing the part of a human, for over a thousand years. I had been born as Abe-no-Seimei and I became a legendary Japanese mystic. I had died from old age, but death is a peculiar thing. Death enhances the characteristics, values and principles of the dead and somehow, my soul had grown far too powerful to remain in the hereafter. And only two years after I had died, I had forcefully reconstructed a new form for myself. I have gone by many names over the years since then, but my most recent was _William Graham_. Now, however, humans were in the know about the supernatural and I may be forced to reveal myself as an immortal other, working and living alongside humans, for their protection. Since humanity has become aware of the supernatural, my age-old enemy has resurfaced creating chaos and spreading darkness. I will need allies, an army, and to remake myself into a weapon, to fight this oncoming horror. _Diverges during Season One, Episode One._ _Not Canon-Compliant and not written in-character. A/B/O._

**Future Main Pairing: **Hannibal Lecter/William Graham (Abe-no-Seimei)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/162258881@N05/48692260397/in/dateposted-public/)

**Book One:**

The Shadows, Shades and the Obscuring Darkness

**Prologue:**

Of Darkness and of Onmyōji

**May 4th, 1989 – 5:56 pm **

** _New Orleans, Louisiana _ **

“Oh fuck,” I swear under my breath, as the newscaster continues to broadcast live on the air, the television in the dingy deli blurs with a slight static causing the newscaster’s images to color in strange hues, like a kaleidoscope. I want to smash my head against the counter, but I don’t think the owner, old Mister Epstein, would approve. _This news did not bode well for me,_ but Mister Epstein’s love of shotguns and clean counters deterred me from bloodying the counter. The white tiled deli glitters from the golden light of the setting sun, albeit grime clings to the tiles’ grout. It’s nearly six in the evening, despite the humidity.

“The President of the United States of America has verified the existence of these supernatural beings, such as those involved in Britain’s Kensington Gardens massacre, living alongside our everyday human populace. President Mitchell is opening peace talks between these supernatural peoples to ensure them rights, protections and to adhere to mutually agreeable laws. However, with the Kensington Garden Massacre having just occurred two days prior, can we trust these creatures to not go on killing sprees? Should we trust them? What do you think Alison?” A mosquito buzzes around my ear, I brush it away, while scowling at the television. 

“Honestly, Jim, I don’t think we can trust them. The supernatural people involved in the Kensington Gardens massacre claim to be vampires and Lycans, which are just different names for killers and dogs. Knowing the history of vampires, blood drinkers, I firmly think not. We need to find some way to protect ourselves from these monsters!” Alison says as if rallying the support of an army behind her. _I can just see her galloping off on her righteous white-American steed with an army of human-supremacist. Mind you, I’m not so politically minded usually, but this reaches me and mine. _

“Shouldn’t we give these creatures a chance to prove themselves? We’re told not all of these Supernatural peoples are violent. For example, a group call Kodama, who are tree spirits.” Jim continues. “I’ve never seen a man-eating tree?”

“But you’ve never seen a vampire before either, have you?” Jim shakes his head vehemently at Alison’s question, “History tells us, trusting –” Alison begins.

“That’s the thing, Alison, history doesn’t speak about vampires. So, we cannot speak historically.” Jim interrupts.

“Don’t interrupt me,” Alison challenges, “Maybe, we can’t speak historically, but everyone knows vampires are bad news. I’ve never seen a man-eating tree, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one?!”

“I’ve never seen Santa Claus,” Jim continues mockingly, “But that doesn’t mean there is no tooth fairy.” I stifle a snort of laughter. Honestly, though, vampires are less terrifying than tooth fairies. American tooth fairies or just American fairies have the penchant to rip out the teeth of lost travelers who encounter them in the Ozarks._ The tooth fairies’ torture over a painless death by vampire?_ The news stations dissolves into static as one of the deli workers flips the channel with a sigh. Down here in the bayou, the supernatural are old news.

* * *

**May 18th, 2013 – 5:56 am **

** _Wolf Trap, Virginia _ ** ** **

_I’ll never be an active criminal behavioral profiler, but that’s okay_. I begin every morning with that thought, as I tend to my morning routine including showering and brushing my teeth. For centuries, I’ve shone brighter and better than my human peers, so to fail at passing the Profiler exam for mental health and species reasons was a blow to my pride. Although, I had been immediately recruited by the Bureau as a consultant and Professor of Criminal Behavioral Analysis, profiling as it were, at the Academy. Which is ironic considering that I have been teaching generations upon generations of future Agents, but never become an agent myself. I had entertained the idea that my skills and techniques were so unique and advanced that my superiors had fought tooth and nail for me to teach the next generation, opposed to wasting the potential as an expendable field agent. I quickly dismissed the idea as my own egotism. Surely there were those more talented and skilled in my profession?

I dressed quickly in the clothing which belonged to my William Graham persona. Breakfast was ready by the time I reached the dining room and sat at the table. The humanoid Shikigami, which lacked any definite features and was colored completely in white, that had prepared the meal for me bowed low. I in turn incline my head slightly in acknowledgement. I finish my meal quickly and gather my briefcase, pushing open the Shoji doors and crossing the engawa, I step into the flourishing garden, filled with bright flowers. My garden separates my home from the house in which Will’s persona lives in. Stepping through the garden’s moon gate, I exit through the painted division into the small mudroom in Will’s cabin.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see the colorful Japanese block-print of Mount Fuji, hidden by groves of cherry trees and a single wisteria tree, hanging on the cabin wall. Most would believe it ludicrous that a paper scroll could be made into a portal to a private dimensional pocket, even among the supernatural others. Yet I have made one and it exists. Straightening my clothes, the dog-shaped Shikigamis I have under an illusion of flesh, fur and blood, whine at me softly. They’re sitting just outside of the mudroom staring at me hopefully. One such creature has a ball in his mouth, dark-brown eyes watching me. I mentally sigh, I’d been neglecting the little gremlins. Despite not needing to consume food or defecate, they still held the personality of a dog. And my dogs loved attention. “I’ll play with you when me get home.” I offer. They yip excitedly, as I slip out of the door, locking them inside. 

* * *

The drive to work is dull. The audio book, “Across the Nightingale Floor,” by Lian Hern, plays on my car stereo. It’s vaguely entertaining, but doesn’t quite portray the Japanese culture accurately, albeit the book is an alternative history and of the fantasy genre. I pull up into my designated parking space, with plenty of time before my first class will begin. It’s the first of my later starting classes at the Academy and I have not met the students partaking in this introductory class yet. I lock the door to my car with a beep, before taking the stone stairs, two-at-a-time, into the Academy. The part of the building, where my classroom resides, is old, having been built in 1891. It is made of finely polished dark woods, white plaster, white stone and matching dark wood floors. Yellowing lantern-shaped light fixtures line the halls. The classrooms have been somewhat modernized with overhead projectors, plasma screens and a whiteboard opposed to a chalkboard. The building, before the establishment of the FBI in 1908, had been a University, which had been closed during the Great Depression. Then the building had been possessed by the government. The rest was history.

My classroom allotted to me is spacious, more of a lecture hall than a proper classroom. My small office is tucked away behind the whiteboard, with a second door leading into an even tinier reception room. A plethora of tall and narrow, built-in, dark wood bookshelves line the room and a massive four-footed clawed desk sits below the stained-glass window on a Persian rug. I’ve filled the reception room with two blue-velvet loveseats and a green-velvet armchair. The chairs, in addition to a rectangular coffee table sits on another Persian rug. There are a few low bookshelves in the room as well and a window which looks over the small courtyard behind my office. Overgrown plants in white-porcelain pots cover almost every surface of my reception room. I’ve set up a Bluetooth audio system which plays soft classical music, which I control from my office, in the reception room for privacy purposes.

I’ve got fifty minutes before my first class begins. I enter my office, placing my bag down on the desk, when my warding scheme senses the presence of two men passing in through my reception room’s doorway. Well, one human and one supernatural other, but both are very much male. My wards sense that the supernatural other is of a mixed heritage; half-human, one-fourth vampire and one-fourth wendigo, old and powerful but not as old as me. I know of only one infamous individual with that bloodline, a man whose grandfather I had been friends with. My lips are set in a thin line. I wonder if he will remember me. The last time I saw him, he was only eight years old. 

The supernatural populace had, thankfully, been able to suppress the information regarding Wendigos from becoming common knowledge among the human populace. I doubted any human in the FBI are aware of Mister… _or was it Count_… Lecter’s status as a quarter-Wendigo. It was in that instant that I identified the prime suspect in the Chesapeake Ripper case. I will hold my tongue though. His kind is protected from humans by the supernatural others. Even if he wasn’t, I owe his grandfather and I empathize with his natural instincts. I too have uncomfortable instincts being one-quarter Yōkai. In my physical form, I am half-Japanese, one-quarter Italian and one-quarter Navajo. From my Japanese heritage, I am both human and Yōkai. The FBI have a genetic profile on me, but little else. After they recorded my DNA sequence, I destroyed the blood sample. The knock on my office door is loud and demanding. With an audible sigh, I walk over to the door of my office and open it.

I periodically dye and curl my hair, which is usually white and falls to my shoulders in waves. I also dye my eyebrows to hide my natural hair color. I wear a colored-contact in my left eye. I’ve got heterochromatic-colored eyes. While both eyes look cobalt-blue with the colored contact, my left eye without the contact is an unusual gold-color which looks like the molten form of the metal. Long eyelashes frame my eyes and fan across my cheekbones. I hide my true height behind an illusion which makes people think I am taller and broader around the shoulders. It’s a matter of perception. My skin coloration is the only thing I do not hide. My complexion is a warm golden-bronze color, mimicking my Navajo-Japanese inheritance, similarly found in old western shows depicting “Indians” and “Cowboys”. The less spoken about old Western shows in my presence, the better.

I know the FBI is aware of my supernatural other inheritance _(well the physical aspect and my empathy)_, but I don’t advertise it to my students. They tend to find it distracting. If a student should discover it, I volunteer one class session to answer all their questions despite that it irritates me.

I come face to face with SSA Jack Crawford and mentally begin swearing. The man is a menace. He has a penchant for interrupting my classes to ask me to consult on various cases. I have consulted with him frequently, but that doesn’t mean I like the man. He doesn’t even greet me by name, simply peers into my office expecting me to let him enter. I am hard-pressed not to murder him on the spot. I step out of the way allowing him to enter my office. My first sight of Hannibal comes a moment afterwards and I am stunned. He looks eerily like his grandfather, save for his currant-red eyes speckled with flecks of gold, which comes entirely from his mother’s vampiric inheritance. His hair is slicked-back, and I am suddenly aware of my painful urge to run my fingers through the pale-golden strands. I immediately note that he doesn’t recognize me as Uncle Abe, but he does find me attractive if the low level of lust and an intense level of curiosity wafting off of him is any indication.

“Will, I am creating a specialized team,” Jack begins.

“Hello to you too, Jack, and good to see you. Now an introduction would be required.” I say gesturing to Hannibal.

Jack flushes lightly in embarrassment before gathering himself quickly, “Professor William Graham, this is Doctor Hannibal Lecter, a highly sought-after doctor of psychiatry. Doctor Lecter, this is Professor William Graham, a talented criminal profiler and a powerful empath.” I offer my hand to Hannibal as I sense him try to cut off his emotions from me. It won’t work. Maybe it’d work in anyone else, but I’m connected to the Lecter bloodline through a blood pact. He can’t hide from me. Hannibal takes my hand and shakes it firmly. Then he smiles at me and I desperately fight down a blush at his handsome smile. My inner omega sits up and takes notice very quickly, releasing a low whine in the back of my throat, which I immediately smother before it can form in reality.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor.” Hannibal says in a smooth baritone.

“Likewise, Doctor.” I reply courteously.

Jack impatiently continues, neglecting the social niceties, “Will, I’ve been granted permission to form a team. The Director has given me the okay to recruit you with some allowances. Professor Hayes will take on your advanced class load, and starting tomorrow, you will teach only the new recruits in the mornings. Your afternoons are mine. There’s a substitute standing in to teach when your gone for longer than a day, visiting a crime scene.” Jack continues, rudely steamrolling any attempt I make to speak, “You will meet the rest of the team in my office after your classes today, but before lunch.”

I scowl angrily at the SSA, “You made all these plans and decisions for me without my permission!” I snarl.

“But you will join my team regardless.” Jack says self-assuredly, almost cockily.

Gritting my teeth, I hissed my reply, “Yes.” 

* * *

_Hannibal Lecter rarely wants of anything. However, when he did want, it came with a refined elegance. It was always something exceptional. Since he was a small child, there had been only one omega as a recipient of his romantic affections. His Uncle Abe had been a stunning man with a petite and slender figure and long white hair despite his youthful visage. Hannibal had known that like his parents and himself, Uncle Abe, who was a family friend and not truly his uncle, was not human. For centuries after his complete change into a hybrid Wendigo-Vampire, Hannibal had sought out a white haired man with mismatched eyes, all for naught. His Uncle Abe had disappeared, and it left a piece of Hannibal empty. Oh, Hannibal as an Alpha sought relief from his ruts with beta partners and alpha partners, but never an omega. No, the only omega he’d ever take to bed and mate would be Abe. However, now he felt a low curl of arousal in his lower belly at the angry and flushed face of this cheeky, intelligent and bold little Omega. This causes him both inexplicable anger and obsession towards the man, this William Graham, who stood before him._

* * *

**To Be Continued**

** _Reviews would be greatly appreciated!_ **


	2. Case 00 - The Minnesota Shrike pt. 01

#  **The Historia of the Arcana**

**Extremely Explicit Adult Content – _Read at your Own discretion_**

(Recommended for Readers 18 years or older - NSFW)

Written, Edited and Illustrated by Ink-Raven (k505)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the Hannibal (Television/Book/Film) series or the Criminal Minds/Criminal Minds: Suspect Behavior (Television) Series. They belong to their respective creator and various publishers. No money is being made by the production of this fan fiction and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Please note, this is a work of fiction and depicts the characters and not the actors in anyway.

**Future Main Pairing: **Hannibal Lecter/William Graham (Abe-no-Seimei) 

**Book One:**

The Shadows, Shades and the Obscuring Darkness

**Chapter One:**

** _Case 00: _ ** _The Minnesota Shrike_

His hands are around her throat! She claws, desperately, at his thick and calloused fingers and muscular forearms, but it’s a useless endeavor. She’s struggling, fighting for her life. She kicks out blindly, striking empty air. She feels scared and helpless, her struggles do not even warrant a pause in his actions. In a moment of perfect clarity, she realizes this is how she’s going to die. Her struggles slowly begin to grow weaker and weaker as the lack of oxygen becomes too much. _Please,_ she screams in her own mind, _please, I don’t want to die yet_. A single tear slips down the curve of her cheek as she falls into darkness. _I’m sorry, mom and dad. I love you both, more than you will ever know. _And then Elise Nichols is dead by strangulation. Her murderer carries her corpse away, to harvest and consume the broken pieces of her.

_She will never leave me now!_ Her murderer thinks approvingly.

* * *

My morning classes end too soon for my liking. As the last of my students leave my classroom, I reenter my office and pack up my briefcase. I throw my wool, peacock-blue peacoat over my arm and lock my office doors behind me. I make the walk to Jack’s office like a man heading to the gallows. Entering the long and sterile hall, made of metal, gray tiles and white plaster, of the modern section of the building, I rap on Crawford’s door sharply. The white-tinted glass door is opened by a scruffy werewolf with short and thick black hair and golden eyes. He steps aside to allow me entrance. His nostrils flare as he tries to catch my scent. I immediately classify his occupation as a Crime Scene Investigator (CSI) by his chemical-tinged scent and by the little evidence of gunpowder on his sleeve. If I recall correctly, he is CSI Brian Zeller, but I could be wrong.

There are a number of people already lounging in Crawford’s office, though Jack remains conspicuously absent. Hannibal is speaking in low voices with a Russian doctor, if the other man’s accent is any indication. The doctor is a Dhampir, a half human and half vampire, younger than both Hannibal and me. Then there’s a female cat shifter, who stands on the other side of the room from the werewolf who opened the door for me. The cat shifter is a criminologist. I am quick to recognize CSI Beverly Katz, a friend of mine who, like I, has Yōkai blood in her. She’s a quarter kitsune, a trickster fox who both is a shapeshifter and manipulates a single natural element, such as wind or fire. I do not know the extent of her abilities, having never enquired. Bev is standing next to the female cat shifter speaking quietly. There are three humans currently present, one a pompous looking CSI, who I believe is called Price. The other humans are a male criminologist and a blonde female, who I cannot quite place. A criminologist is also known as a forensic scientist and who works solely in the labs. The female seems familiar. _Perhaps she was a student of mine?_

“Good, you’re all here.” Jack says pushing open his office door, another man following him in. I do not recognize the man, but I do recognize the man for what he is. He is a hybrid human-Fae, with the obnoxious ability to see through illusions. He stops stunned, staring at me with his jaw hanging, and I scowl at him in warning. He recoils, like he’s been slapped.

Jack continues, having missed our interaction, “Now, I have received permission to form a team of select individuals, let me introduce you to each other. For profiling, we have Special Agent Miriam Lass,” Jack says nodding towards the blonde human female._ She was a former student, a bit confrontational and outspoken, but my student none the less!_ “Special Agent and Doctor, William Graham,” Jack continues jerking his chin towards me, “Special Agent Jean-Paul Lys and myself.” He says indicating the hybrid human-Fae and himself. “Then for Crime Scene Investigators we have CSI Brian Zeller, whose specialty is gathering photographic evidence and in ballistics. CSI Jimmy Price, specializing in fingerprints and DNA. CSI Beverly Katz is our Crime Scene Leader and a sketch artist. Our two forensic scientists are Adrien Hawthorne and Marianne Thomas. Finally, we have our consultants, Doctor of Psychology, Doctor Hannibal Lecter, and Doctor of Medicine, Doctor Mikael von Webber.” Jack introduces us. I greet each of my new teammates with a polite nod of my head. “Now, we have a new case. We’re flying to Minnesota this evening at seven o’clock, please make arrangements. Our Criminologists will remain here.” Jack continues cutting off their protests at the short notice, “There are seven dead girls and the eighth is missing.” They leave quickly, several members discontent with Jack’s manipulation and overbearing behavior. Others were looking forward to working this high profile case. I interpret all of this information, watching my new “team” leave the office, in silent contemplation. _How do I want to play this? Do I want to be underestimated or valued by Jack, putting myself at odds with my teammates? Do I even have a choice in Jack’s great design? I am a mere pawn to him, this is irrefutable. His intentions are noble, but his actions and behaviors are deplorable. _I study the “team leader” silently for several more moments as he putters around his desk. I leave the room on silent feet. The door clicks shut behind me.

* * *

He’s dreaming, Hannibal knows this. His last conscious memory was napping on the plane heading towards Minnesota from Virginia. Hannibal dreams of _him_, he dreams of _Abe_. The lovely, petite white-haired male omega is lounging against him, his head tucked under Hannibal’s jaw, soft hair tickling his throat. They are sprawled on the grass under a beautiful Sakura tree. The pink blossoms drift downwards. The sky is slowly settling into night. The setting sun casts an ethereal glow on the scene and fireflies flash brightly in the twilight. Hannibal has _him_ in his arms. Abe’s back rests against his chest, however, the most remarkable thing is the gentle swell under Hannibal’s hand were their child is growing inside of his beautiful omega. Hannibal is awash with feelings of contentment. Contentment is an emotion which eludes him, it has alluded him for many centuries. The feelings of contentment and the love he holds for his beautiful omega and their unborn child is almost crippling. He feels tears gather in his eyes. “What’s the matter, darling?” Abe asks in his soft and smooth voice, raising one hand to cup Hannibal’s cheek. Hannibal raises his hand to touch the warm hand resting along his jaw, but just as his fingers graze the soft flesh of his beloved omega…

“Doctor Lecter, wake up!” Jack Crawford’s voice shatters his peace, like a mirror his dream fragments into tiny shards and falls. Hannibal opens his eyes wanting nothing more than to murder Crawford in the most painful way possible. He quickly schools his face to hide his emotions. No one seems to realize his foul mood. “The plane is landing Doctor Lecter.” Jack says putting away his laptop. “We better get ready.” Hannibal nods his head curtly, his eyes catching the curious eyes of William Graham before turning away from the dark-haired man. It feels too much like he’s cheating on his Abe, by meeting the too-blue eyes of the Professor, so much like Abe’s right eye’s coloration, a deep cobalt-blue.

* * *

In the small motel room, clean despite the motel’s apparent poor management, dressed in my pajamas, I open my suitcase filled with little clothing, travel-sized hygiene products, a small sketchbook, Sumi-e ink and brushes, laptop and several books. Inside my sketchbook is a plethora of resources for this task, carefully sealed away in my paintings. I tuck my dirty clothing back into the suitcase before snapping it closed. The residents of the neighboring rooms, Beverly and on the other side, Zeller, are quiet. I ease out of my shoes, silently cursing my dubious pleasure of partaking the western-styled bed, opposed to my comfortable futon at home, and crawl under the sheets. My “dogs” are currently lodging with a Shikigami in a neighboring house, which I had bought under a pseudonym. The old spinster who is watching my dogs, usually acts as my spy and alarm system of approaching humans. She is innately tied to my wards. Several other townsfolk of Wolf Trap, Virginia, are not real. Well, not real beyond the papers, illusions and spirits I’ve made them from. They’re a necessary component of my day-to-day life.

I fall into a light slumber, rousing before everyone else save Hannibal in the morning. I silently volunteer myself for the breakfast run. Showered and dressed, I slip on my shoes and my peacoat. I lock the motel door behind me and make the short walk into town. The street, Pine Lane was ironically framed on either side by massive pine trees. I join the que in the small coffee shop with the attached bakery, waiting for my order. “Never seen you around here?” A man in line behind me says, squinting at me suspiciously, “Bad timing to come to town newcomer.” He says.

“It’s part of the job description,” I say calmly, “I work with the FBI.” I continue. The man wets his lips nervously.

“Do you folks have any leads yet?” the man asks.

“We just arrived in town late last night.” I reply, “We’re starting on the case today.”

“Well, maybe you ought to look at those mongrels, livings about the middle of dumb-fucks’ nowhere, in the woods.” A robust woman interjects crudely, “Those fucking werewolves are outright menaces to polite society.” I glance at her reproachfully, “You city slickers don’t go living with them day in and day out. Those fuckers are sadists and creeps. Why, I recently read online that statistically-speaking werewolves are more prone to stalking and peeping on young women than not.” She says fanning herself. The unseasonably warm Spring heat filters into the shop with the morning sunlight. Dust motes dance in the light pouring in through the windows of the shop. Peeling gold lettering on the window, names the bakery-coffee shop, “Mama June’s”.

“And where did you read that?” I ask.

“Oh, I was looking for some insight on our recent tragedies and found this website called tattle-crime.” She replies.

“Thank you, I will look into that.” I say accepting my large order. I proceed to quickly travel back to the motel. Just as the others were rousing themselves, I arrive back at the cheap motel. Hannibal meets me at the door and I unconsciously pass him the hot water and tea packets, which I know he favored in his youth. “Jack,” I call, seeing him knocking on the door to my room, “Freddie Lounds is at it again.”

The man curses loudly, before pulling out his phone. Lounds of Tattle-Crime had taken to interfering in Crawford’s investigations, after Jack had outed her as a human-supremacist, publicly. It was not entirely illegal, her work, but it was blatant manipulation of the facts to incite panic and anger. Jack unfortunately couldn’t legally prosecute her under federal law. She barely left her computer station, after the accident, and thus wasn’t directly interfering with the investigation. Instead, she relied on her network of informants and fans, for information on Jack and his cases. Jack could take her to court for libel and for violating his privacy, something which was becoming closer and closer to a reality with every case he worked.

Lounds had yet to attack me directly. However, I had prepared something which would ruin her and tattle-crime if she attempted to do so. The files were preloaded on the internet, waiting to be released by several specific keywords. I have a friend, a former hacker for the FBI, who had created the automatic trigger-release program at my behest and threaded it into her website. Making an enemy out of me would not be beneficial towards her continuing work as a journalist. In addition, I have several contacts in the Journalist’s board of Ethics, who would destroy her reputation at a moment’s notice. They were chomping on the bit to do so. I vaguely notice Hannibal studying me over the top of his paper cup of tea, curiously. I don’t really pause to consider his motives, too caught up in Freddie’s melodramatics.

The others come trickling into the police station over the next hour. The small police station is further down Pine lane, across from the fire department and the ranger’s service. The department sits next to a small diner, “Lou’s Diner,” a greyhound bus depot and a mechanic’s shop and gas station. We’ve been given a section of the main office, sectioned off by whiteboards on wheels and standing shelves surrounding a long conference table. It’s crude in comparison to some offices I’ve seen in inner-city stations. However, we make do with the space. Doctor von Webber is led into the morgue to assist the small town coroner with the seven bodies, while Jack, Jean-Paul, Miriam and I, accompanied by Doctor Lecter, leave for the Nichols’ household to question the parents.

* * *

Jack rings the doorbell next to the green front door of the Nichols’ house. The door is opened hesitantly by the omega-wife. She is a pretty thing with large doe-colored eyes and thick brown hair, just like her daughter. “Mrs. Nichols?” Jack asks, the woman nods, “I’m Special Agent Jack Crawford with the FBI.” He greets, showing off his badge, the woman seems to sag in relief.

“Please come in Mr. Crawford, my husband is in the kitchen.” She says holding the door open politely.

“Maria, who is it?” A male voice calls out.

“The FBI, Jason.” His wife replies. The sound of a gas stove being turned off can be heard and Jason Nichols appears in the doorway of the small kitchen. He is a tall man, broad about the shoulders, and he has sinewy muscles. In addition, he has dark curls atop his head. He takes a moment to study Jack and the rest of us.

“Mr. and Mrs. Nichols,” Jack says politely inclining his head, “I am Special Agent Jack Crawford of the FBI, this is my team; Miriam Lass, Jean-Paul Lys, William Graham and our consultant, Dr. Lecter. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Elise.”

“Of course, anything to find our daughter.” The father, Mr. Nicholas says. As Jack begins asking his cursory questions, I notice the cat acting erratically in the hall, scratching at a door. I interrupt the conversation.

“Mrs. Nichols did you feed the cat recently?” I ask.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Nichols asks.

“When was the cat fed last?” I ask.

“I think I fed him this morning. Elise wouldn’t forgive me if anything happened to him.” Mr. Nichols replies.

“What’s in there?” I ask gesturing to the door which the cat is scratching at.

“Oh, well it used to be Jason’s study, but after Elise broke her leg in her junior year, we turned it into her bedroom. She never moved back upstairs.” Mrs. Nichols replies. I walk over to the door and pick up the cat, placing it in Mr. Nichols’s arms as I turn to open the door. Elise Nichols’s corpse is laying in her bed, unnervingly still and silent in her death. Mrs. Nichols lets out a high pitched whine, like a dying animal, and Mr. Nichols drops the cat in his shock. Mr. Nichols tries to go to his daughter, but Jack restrains him. The cat jumps on the bed and Miriam quickly picks it up before it can disturb the evidence. Jack places a call to his CSI and by extension, the town’s police.

* * *

The house is swarming with the police, medical professionals, and the team. Mr. Nichols is pacing the living room in agitation, as he replies in short and emotional bursts to the questions, which Miriam has for him. Mrs. Nichols had to be sedated and move to rest in her room. Jean-Paul is questioning the neighbors, who live at quite a distance away. The town is spread out, nearly all of its occupants living at least five hundred yards apart. Jack is supervising Beverly and the other CSI, who are gathering evidence. I have slipped out of the house, circling to find the point of entry. Opposed to the second floor, where a balcony is situated at Elise’s old bedroom, there’s no easy access point into the house. I find the broken casing of the basement window, a partial handprint in the wet grass from the man hoisting himself upwards to freedom, and I circle back to inform Jack and the CSI. The perp, as I imagine him, had broken the window’s casing, hauling the entire window out, and crept in. He’s strong, very strong and clever. If he broke the glass it would’ve alerted the family, glass has a very distinguishable sound. The worn and weathered wood window case wouldn’t have made as much of a recognizable sound if muffled appropriately. Our perp carried the victim, Elise Nichols, up the basement steps and into her bedroom on the first floor. Her bedroom door is across the short hall from the basement steps. It’s relatively easy if featuring an extreme risk of being witnessed. Arriving quickly, Jim Price checks for fingerprints and DNA on the broken window casing, but finds none, as Zeller snaps photographs. 

“Mr. Nichols,” I say approaching the man hesitantly, reentering the house from the backdoor and through the kitchen. Having found the body of his daughter, I am worried he has created a negative association with me. I am deeply relieved to see his eyes dart towards me, not with anger or anxiety, but with hope.

“Did you find anything?” he asks. “Something to put away this sick son of a bitch?”

“Maybe,” I reply, “did you notice what time it began raining this morning? I’m afraid, I was asleep at the motel.”

“It began around three in the morning and ended shortly after seven,” Mrs. Nichols says descending from the second floor. She has seemed to have gathered herself from her nervous breakdown. There’s steel in her spine now. “It was storming, there was a loud crack at one point. We thought lightning had struck a tree, but we didn’t see it from the window. That was around six-fifty.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Nichols,” Jack says creeping up from behind me, “Agent Graham discovered the point of entry. The murderer ripped out your entire basement window. You will need to replace it.” Jack says without tact. I mentally sigh at the brusqueness of his apathetic message. Mrs. Nichols’s hands tighten on the bannister until her knuckles are white. “Will, come with me.” Jack says heading towards the bedroom. With a shake of my head, I follow the Supervising Special Agent. Reentering the bedroom, Elise Nichols is still laid out on the bed, “What do you feel, Will?” Jack demands. I eye the police and CSI canvassing the room, I give Jack a pointed look.

“Jack, I need the room empty. Give me five minutes.” I say.

“Everyone out, you can come back in five minutes.” Jack says chasing everyone out of the room, leaving himself and shutting the door partially. I close my eyes letting the pendulum swing, back and forth, back and forth. I open my eyes, witnessing the attack. Elise’s spirit speaks to me as vivid as if she were in the room next to me. Meanwhile, I sense the murderer’s emotions. 

* * *

“What’s he doing in there?” Mrs. Nichols asks curiously. Hannibal is likewise interested. He sees William standing with his eyes closed, body feigning lassitude, from the corner of his eye. Hannibal is intensely curious.

It’s CSI Beverly Katz, Will’s friend, who answers, “Will is an Empath, a powerful one. He’s picking up the psychic impressions, the emotions, of your daughter and her killer. He then uses his unique skill. He describes it as reconstructing the events in the room and analyzing the motivations and intentions of the murderer.”

“What good will that do?” Mr. Nichols wonders aloud.

“If he can construct the motive and intentions, he can identify why the killer is doing this. From that we can create a profile, which tells us what kind of killer he is. Then we start narrowing down the suspect group.” Beverly continues. “It’s a technique unique to Will. No one has seen anything like it before.” Hannibal is reluctantly impressed.

* * *

Exiting the room, I met the curious looks of the Nichols, Beverly and Hannibal. Jack is giving me an expectant look filled with impatience, I shake my head trying to clear it. “It’s not a complete profile,” I respond, “His pre-murder and post-murder emotions are muddying the room.” Looking past Jack, I speak to the Nichols, “The last thing she thought of was her love for you and the grief she would inadvertently cause you. She loved you both, very much.” Tears begin dripping down Mrs. Nichols’s cheeks and her husband draws her into his arms. Pulling her to the privacy of their kitchen. “Jack,” I continue switching my attention back to the man, “He’s killing out of anxiety. He’s physically replacing the one he wants with these girls. She is leaving him, and he doesn’t know what to do.” Jack grunts unhappily.

“So, his girlfriend is leaving him, what does that tell you?!” he demands.

“But there was no evidence of semen in any of the victims! And he’s not violating them beyond strangulation. This is not a crime of passion.” Dr. von Webber interjects.

“The relationship he has with this young woman is not sexual. So, not a girlfriend or wife. Maybe a sibling, authority figure, mother or daughter.” I say, “Question, where were the other girl’s bodies found? Not in their beds, right?” I ask.

“No, most of them were found outside stuck through with branches and the like. It’s why we called him the shrike. The Minnesota Shrike, a bird, which is also known as the butcher bird, kills and devours their prey by impaling them. The prey is dropped from the sky onto thorny bushes and the like.” Zeller says.

“The way, Elise Nichols was placed back in her bed and the emotions he was experiencing…. The murderer felt remorseful.”

“But he killed her anyway.”

“Yes, it was something he discovered about her, after the act of killing her.” I pause, a sudden epiphany comes to me, “What were the organs removed from the bodies again?” I ask Dr. von Webber.

“Liver, tongue, lungs…” he begins.

I turn to Jack, eyes open wide, “Those aren’t trophies. He’s eating them.”

“But why not Elise?” Jack asks pointedly.

“Mrs. Nichols,” I ask popping my head into the kitchen, “Did your daughter have any medical conditions or see the doctor recently?” I ask the still crying woman. The woman nods mutely into her husband’s shoulder.

“She was having a biopsy done to determine if a strange growth on her liver was cancerous.” Mr. Nichols says.

“Did anyone else know?” I ask gently.

“No, she didn’t want to worry her grandparents until the results came back.” Mr. Nichols replies. “In fact, the results arrived this morning.” The man says, handing over the unopened letter. I pass it back to him.

“Please open it, you don’t have to read it… but I legally cannot open your mail.” He opens it, glancing at it for a moment and begins crying silent tears as he passes it to me. I read it, reentering the living room where the team is waiting. “She had liver cancer.”

* * *

Fredricka “Freddie” Lounds sits at her computer, fingers curled over the keyboard thinking of the best method to twist the story, to sensationalize it. “Freddie?” a voice calls from the other room, “I’ve got you Chinese takeout.” The young journalist sighs theatrically at the interruption. Seizing the wheels of the wheelchair, she wheels herself out of the private room she is inhabiting while adjusting to her disability. The accident had left her wracked with anxiety about leaving the small group home in which she was residing and traveling by car. However, it wasn’t the results of the accident which incited her rage. SSA of the FBI, Jack Crawford, had testified on the behalf of the disgusting half-breed whose carelessness had caused the accident. Jack had fallen for the lure of those pretty eyes in that freak’s face and informed the court that she had been inebriated. She’d been tipsy, not drunk! Her photographer had died in the passenger seat after she’d hit the streetlight’s pole. _Crawford was a traitor to humanity._ She would make him regret assisting in allowing that freak walk free.

_She’d already ruined the freak! That monster had committed suicide to escape her and her words._ _Jack Crawford_, she thinks as she picks at her fried rice in the white takeout box, _was proving a more difficult subject_. Seizing a notebook and pen, an idea comes to her and she scribbles down notes. Werewolves, yes, the Minnesota werewolf pack would be her next targets. _It would be perfect._

* * *

Several police officers interrupt our evening meal at Lou’s Diner, approaching the table. “Agent Crawford, I’m sorry to interrupt,” says a grizzled faced middle-aged cop, “We’re having some trouble with the media and the townsfolk. Apparently, some online journalist implicated the Minnesota werewolf community for the girls’ murders. We’ve already arrested several men who beat a werewolf family to the point of hospitalization. A little girl of the Jameson Pack, McKenzie Jameson, is missing, and this is becoming a problem. We need you to make an official statement to the press, in order to calm the public.”

“Officer?” I ask, as Jack rises to his feet and places his napkin on the table, “By chance was this online news site, tattle-crime?” Jack starts swearing as the officers of Oak Knolls township nod in agreement. Jack pulls out his cellphone once more, overpaying his bill as he leaves to get reception outside. I wave down the waitress and ask for the receipt. After paying our bills, Mariam, Hannibal, Beverly, Zeller, Price and I walk to the police station. Jack is already standing at a podium speaking to the reporters outside. News camera rolls and the flash of photographs being taken illuminate the early evening. The dusky gloom encroaches on the scene and a light and damp wind blows, causing me to pull my peacoat tighter around myself.

“These attacks on the Minnesota werewolf populace are not only pointless but are dangerous to our investigation. The species of the murderer has yet to be identified, but we believe him to be an Alpha human. We have identified that the murderer placed his victim’s, Elise Nichols’s, corpse back in her room around six in the morning. He’s comfortable navigating in the early morning, carrying a hundred and thirty-five pound woman and breaking and entering. Considering that last night was a full moon, it is unlikely that our murderer is a werewolf. Furthermore, we had hoped to ask the assistance of the werewolf community in tracking the murderer’s scent. The actions of the community, those who have attacked the Minnesota werewolf populace, are straining the likelihood of that assistance. Please remember, despite their otherworldly natures, they are human for the majority of their days. We, the FBI, do not promote or permit these criminal activities. The attackers will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

* * *

**To Be Continued**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Reviews would be greatly appreciated._** Story diverges more significantly, post-Minnesota Shrike case.


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